The Return
by Luna Lumen
Summary: Harry Potter dies. And stays dead, because he is the Master Of Death - or more specifically, he is Death. Time Travel/Dimension travel. Otherwise known as the story where Harry leaves his own universe behind because he's practically a ghost that can't communicate with anyone and then raises the Harry from the other universe without anyone else's knowledge.
1. Chapter 1

The Return

Harry Potter died after living an almost unnaturally long life, even by wizarding standards – especially if one considered his childhood and the fact that he survived two wars; both times the victor, depending on one's definition of winning and losing. (Harry rather thought that there were no real victories in war, but he was biased anyway. All of those lives – ruined, including his own.)

He outlived many of his loved ones, including his wife, two of their children and many of his closest friends. The people he considered friends nowadays were much younger than him, almost all of them born after the twenty-first century. None of them thought of him as a normal friend, but idolized him as a war hero.

His biggest regret was that most of the people he had any kind of bond with had died in wars, not getting to have children or not getting to see them grow up, whether because of their own death or the death of their child. The joy of having a child and getting to see them grow up was worth the pain of losing them in Harry's opinion. He hated the fact that everyone he knew had been affected by wars in one way or another; he hated that there had been any wars at all after he'd defeated Voldemort. He'd hated the war against Voldemort, but he hated it even more once it was over and he saw the way it was shaping the world and people around him.

There were many orphans after the First Wizarding War. There weren't any orphans after The Wars (yes, there had been multiple wars, though some thought of them all as one very long war; Harry was in the latter category) against muggles; they didn't target adults, only children. Adults were too dangerous, but children hadn't yet learned how to use their powers to protect themselves properly, and everyone knew that children were the future. Wipe out the children and in time there would be no more magic to fight.

Harry didn't like thinking about how many of those children were taken to laboratories and cut open to see what made them tick. He'd been in one of those facilities personally once, on a rescue mission. In the end, the children they had been able to take with them – and there had been many more who just _couldn't _leave – had been too mentally and physically scarred to live a normal life after.

It was a brutal and miserable time, a time Harry did his best not to think about because it was bad enough to live through it once, until finally someone came up with a solution to put an end to their suffering. It was a witch from Germany, one of Grindelwald's still loyal believers.

(There were plenty of people who were now beginning to see the Dark Lords in a new light, plenty who secretly thought that maybe they could have lived under them, or tried harder to incorporate dark arts and magical beasts into their society, just because muggles were __so much worse __by comparison. Many of the Dark witches and wizards who had been loyal all along acted inappropriately smug about the whole thing. Harry himself had been having regrets with just taking everything at face value and not bothering to see what Voldemort was trying to accomplish besides destroying muggles and muggle-borns. He was intelligent enough to see that by the time he came face to face with Voldemort for the last time, the Lord was too far gone to implement anything worthwhile, but maybe if someone had seen the truth of what he'd been saying about the muggles, if Voldemort had been a bit more forgiving of muggle-borns... but it was too late for those sorts of thoughts, even though Harry had them often during the end.)

The German witch had already been working on a muggle repelling spell that would be more powerful than the original one, but the war most likely gave her new motivation and help to finally make it work. She and her assistants picked an island that was only known to magical beings, one of the few still standing, and sent out a message through the wizarding radio. There weren't many of them left by then, but they still made it a priority to make sure the remaining children were taken there first after the place had been secured by protection charms.

It was safe-place for magical people and creatures, and since there were so few of them left, they'd had to stop all internal fighting. Harry had been pleasantly surprised by this because he'd often thought that even this wouldn't be enough to bring them all together. He was happy to be proved wrong this time.

Still, there was one group that stayed a bit separate from the others. Muggle-borns were revered, since they were difficult to save from their muggle families – few were brave or stupid enough to leave the protection of the repellent spell – and a large number of surviving witches and wizards had been too old to reproduce by then. They were also hated because of their lineage.

Before the war had fully started, many muggle-borns had tried to get the muggles to see that not all magical beings were dangerous, Hermione being one of the most active and vocal one of them all, obviously. This had turned out to have no effect on muggles, which was completely unsurprising to everyone else except muggle-borns, though in Harry's opinion they, most of all, should have known how cruel humans could be to something they didn't understand.

Harry had experienced it first-hand when he'd lived with the Durselys, and he'd fought Voldemort, sure, but he knew now that there was a reason the Dark Lord had hated all muggles. His childhood had been similar to Harry's, even worse by some standards. It still didn't make Harry forgive him for his actions, but at least he understood them better.

(He learned even more about Tom's history after he __changed___, _and began to forgive him a little. His shitty childhood didn't make anything he did to accomplish his goals at all okay, but the circumstances of his childhood explained why he'd ever decided to do what he'd done.)

So, he still had friends, or at least people who cared about him, but none of them were by his death-bed when he took his final breath. It was because he wanted it that way, even though it had once been one of his greatest fears. He just didn't want to see all those sad faces surrounding him, he wanted to remember happiness and joy above all else.

That's why, when he felt death approaching, he used the last of his magic to make sure that nobody could enter the room until he had passed away.

(Outside of that otherwise unremarkable room, the entire wizarding population, small as it was now, had gathered to witness and honour the passing of their hero and saviour.)

(*-,-*)

Ignotus took a deep breath as he felt his powers start to transfer over to the chosen one, relief evident in his every feature. Finally, all of his intricate planning was coming to fruit. For a while there he'd actually thought he'd have to deal with this curse for all of eternity.

(When it had seemed like nobody would pick up the Wand again, too scared by its power and the apparent curse; when the Stone was left with those interbreeding monsters who seemed to be dying out and would surely never leave their hut to find the other Hallows; when it looked like even his own last descendant would die and the cloak would be left to that idealistic old man who couldn't let go of the past and would clearly never be worthy of Ignotus's mantel despite being one of the most powerful wizards alive.)

It had been stupid of him to take the artifacts from his brothers' corpses, he could see it now (too late, his mind whispered). They had crafted their Hallows separately for a reason (they had been warned, they were never supposed to belong to the same person, terrible things would happen) he should have never thought to own them all himself, no matter how innocent he had thought his intentions to be.

Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been like if it had truly gone like in the book. If he could have lived his life fully and gone with Death in peace (what a ridiculous notion, he was the only Death there had ever been, but maybe after this he won't be the only Death that ever will be) after giving his cloak to his son, instead of his precious son (who had always been a bit fragile, and would spend the rest of his life wondering if it had been his fault, if he had done something wrong, if it was because he hadn't been good enough) his Friedrich finding the body of his father with the three Hallows surrounding it. (He couldn't bear to think of his wife's reaction.)

And now, after all these year (__countless millennium, all of them spent alone; never able to do anything but watch over his kind and see them suffer___) _he was free. True, he had only won his freedom by slipping his burden onto the shoulder of another, but if he was entirely honest, he didn't even care by this point. At least, in his defense, he had managed to let the child live his life until he was old and wrinkly, though he often wondered if it wasn't crueler to let the child see what the people he protected so earnestly would do to him and his kind after all that he had sacrificed for them. (It wasn't, of course. Seeing it later and not being able to do anything about it, forever wondering if he would have been able to change something if he had been there, would be far worse. Ignotus knew from personal experience.)

_Harry Potter was the chosen one in more ways than he could ever imagine._

He felt it when the boy's soul left his body once and for all, and smiled with grim satisfaction, the expression laced with undertones of sympathy, but no guilt. His own soul, or the way he existed now, was starting to fade.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

(*-,-*)

The first time Death had referred to themselves as '_Death_' had been when they'd finally accepted the fact that they weren't human any longer. Their previous name didn't belong to them any more. _They weren't worthy to use the name their mother had given them_. They took to emphasizing the fact that they weren't human any more, that they were Death, especially inside their own thoughts)

_Harry Potter._

They'd abandoned the name when it had finally become clear that no matter that they did, they still wouldn't be able to interact with the physical world. It didn't matter that they had the most powerful wand in history; their magic could only affect themselves. (And oh, how Death had tried.) The Cloak of Invisibility had become over-powered when it had been united with the other Hallows and started to shroud their whole physical being so much that touching anything but themselves became impossible.

They weren't the saviour of the wizarding world, they were Death. They took care of souls and made sure they got to where they were supposed to go, even if they weren't aware of doing it most of the time. The Ring was the one that took care of all that.

Most of the time, Death just wondered why they even existed.

This was one such time, largely inseparable from all the other times they had done this, would do this.

They took out their wand and cast the Patronos charm; it had become habit do so whenever they were feeling extraordinarily downtrodden. The familiar stag form appeared as usual, though perhaps not as quickly as it used to, and ran around the clearing a couple of times before coming to Death's side. They ran their hand along its mane and murmured a few complimentary words and phrases. Only beings they summoned themselves could see them, which was a bit weird, but Death would take what they were given without a fuss.

After a moderately long amount of time the stag butted its head against Death, as if in apology, and disappeared. A sigh escaped their lips once again, involuntarily. They twirled their wand around their fingers as they let their negative feelings wash over them.

They hadn't liked the thought of immortality when they'd been mortal; they liked it even less now. They could see how it could appeal to some people, those who didn't value relationships and human connections as much. Voldemort had been after power and knowledge, so the concept of living forever was perfect for him, but Death had always been too emotionally connected to their friends and family.

They knew that they could grow to not hate this as much as they did if only they could talk with somebody. Or even just having another being acknowledge their existence would do the trick. Some days they were sure that this was just their punishment, that all of this wasn't real, just the afterlife. Some days they became convinced that they were just dreaming, imagining the whole thing.

Mostly they thought about putting the Hallows in the physical world to wait for another person to collect them all, but they could never do that. As the previous Death, most notably, had said to them, the only people worthy of the Hallows were the ones who didn't fear death, and as such didn't even want the Hallows.

And besides, there was no guarantee that somebody worthy would be stupid enough to collect the Hallows like Death had.

(*-,-*)

There!

Death, who was already within touching distance of the boy, moved even closer in fascination and eagerness as they noticed the minuscule shaking of the object. The boy next to them would have undoubtedly found this to be an invasion of his personal space, if he had known what personal space meant or had actually sensed that Death was there.

(Death didn't even think about the fact that the boy would be terrified of them if he knew what they were. Their appearance would be scary to someone so young. Death looked a lot like they had when they were still a mortal in their thirties, but taller and skinnier, their face gaunt looking. Their skin was paler too, from no contact with any kind of sunlight, and their eyes had taken on the glowing green colour of the forbidden death curse. Dark, unruly hair was now even darker, as if every individual strand was sucking up all the light around it. They didn't look like they were a living being, more like a corpse of some kind of magical creature.)

Luckily for Death (though they had often considered this ability to be unlucky) nobody living had been able to see, hear, touch, or perceive their presence for a couple of hundred thousand years by now. Though they couldn't really be sure of the time-frame; they'd lost interest in keeping the time when the first dozen centuries had passed with no acceptable solution to their problem in sight.

This was one of the moments in time that they liked to visit the most when they started to forget who they used to be. (They always made sure to be extra careful in remembering that they were not this boy any longer, that they weren't even human). The first time they ever used magic. They hadn't actually remembered this when they'd still been alive; they'd discovered it when they'd decided to see what their life had been like from an outsider's perspective. They'd only thought to do something like that after a few decades had passed, and it had seemed like one of the greatest ideas they'd ever had. In the end, the only things that made the whole ordeal bearable were little gems like this moment; otherwise they wouldn't have bothered to stick around to watch their whole life again.

(This was also how Death discovered that they could literally follow anyone in the world for however long they wanted. It was the start of a better time for Death.)

"That's it..." they mumbled encouragingly, their voice raspy from disuse, unheard by any but themselves as they watched their charge move the tiny toy soldier closer to himself with newly discovered magical powers. Of course, the boy didn't know that what he was using was called 'magic'; his official guardians preferred to call those sorts of things 'freakish' and 'abnormal'.

He was only barely four years old, his fifth birthday just a few weeks away, and since his 'guardians' thought that his sort didn't have the right to go to kindergarten or anything associated with 'normal' human beings, he hadn't ever talked to anyone but his so called family, or heard anyone refer to his powers as anything but abhorrent and unnatural.

He was concentration hard for one his age, eyes squinting with effort and lips pursed in determination. A line of perspiration was gathering on his brow, and Death forgot for a moment that they couldn't actually manifest themselves in the physical world and tried to wipe it away with a long-fingered skeletal hand. They jerked the hand back quickly as it started to go through the boy's head.

(They were mostly okay with the whole 'not part of the physical world' thing by now, but sometimes they simply forgot, and those moments were the worst.)

With one final pull, the toy started wobbling unsteadily closer until it reached the boy's waiting hands. A noise of triumph and unsuppressed glee burst forth from the lips of the boy, though it was quickly muffled by a tiny hand that should have rightfully had more baby fat on it. The movement was accompanied by a fearful glance upward, face frozen in an expression of terror.

After a few minutes of tense silence they both breathed a sigh of relief and turned their attention back to the miniature soldier in the boy's hands. While the boy's eyes were once again filled with awe and wonder, Death's were clouded by sadness at the boy's heart-wrenching circumstances; even though they had relived this moment many times by now, once as the boy and many times as Death, and knew what would happen, they still couldn't help but feel the same basic emotions every time they visited. They'd watched hundreds of other people, from birth till death, but this little boy was always the one that awakened the strongest emotional response. They had, after all, lived this same life themselves.

They spent only a short moment to linger on the negative emotions before they faded as they looked at the boy's radiant smile. They'd forgotten about this one moment of peace and happiness, the years having erased the memories long ago. They had been replaced with war and heart-breaking sorrow and blood. Seeing that one smile was almost worth all the misery that came before it and the oceans of sorrow that came after.

(That was a lie; nothing could ever make all of this better. They just liked to think like that to make themselves feel better.)

After that smile, Death only stayed for a few more minutes. There was a place during the early tenth century that had a big forest that was barely touched by humans. It was very green and lush, the wildlife alive and energetic. It was their own place, with nobody there to disturb them when they wanted to think or get from their responsibilities. Granted, they didn't actually have a lot of those. They only had to exist, and through them all of their tasks happened automatically.

Still, being Death was very taxing. Sure, they could go to any time and/or space they wanted, but nobody, absolutely nobody, could actually interact with them. It got a bit lonely after a while. Also, they couldn't do anything that required a physical object either, so reading was out of the question unless they hovered over the shoulder of somebody else while they were reading.

Learning new languages was fun for some time, but once they'd learned enough of them it seemed insultingly easy to figure out all the others with only hearing them spoken once. They all had a few words that were the same in another language, and eventually they just grew bored with not finding something more difficult.

They wished for a lot of things.

The last Death, or as they had liked to call them in the beginning, 'that selfish, irresponsible arsehole' had been erased from existence when the new Death had officially died. For the second time. Often times Death wondered why they hadn't turned into Death when they had died the first time around. They'd even tried to ask the first Death, but no answers had been given that time, or ever.

Death sat down between conveniently placed roots and sighed, a rattling sound that would have fit them better when they was old and dying. Getting to just sit here, in the middle of nowhere, had become a disturbingly comforting habit. It was frustrating to be in the midst of so many humans and have them ignore your very existence, no matter what you did or said.

They really didn't know what they were supposed to do now. The only amusement they got was from watching other people live their lives, but even that was starting to lose its charm. They'd seen all of their friends, acquaintances and even complete strangers grow up and die. They'd actually even watched their parents and children and other close family.

(Death didn't consider what they were doing an invasion of privacy. It was their right to do so. They simply forgot what it had been like to be human)

They watched them be born, watched them learn how to walk and talk. They watched them as they made their first friend and as they experience their first love. As they got their heart broken and screamed at the world for unfair it was. They knew why they did some things, but didn't do others. They knew them inside and out. They took their souls when they died and held them.

Repetition made everything seem dull, even the most wonderful and amazing things.

(*-,-*)

A tremendous amount of magic was gathering around them, both theirs and nature's. Only they were able to feel it, but that didn't mean much considering the only living things around them for kilometres were plants and trees. It still wasn't enough.

The spell they were trying to cast had been invented by them, and it had taken what felt like an eternity to get even the theory right. This wasn't the first time they were trying to cast this spell; more like the hundredth. They couldn't do it too often either; it required too much magic. Time didn't matter much to them though, considering how long they had existed and the fact that they could never stop existing.

They'd never thought of themselves as an inventor of spells, even though the book of the Half-Blood Prince had made it seem cool at the time. Over time they'd collected enough knowledge to passably understand what they were doing, but by no means would they call themselves a master. They'd never had that innate knowledge with creating spells as they'd had with casting spells and dueling.

Wars didn't need inventors, they needed soldiers, and that's exactly what Death had been. Their entire life had been dedicated to following orders and fighting against the enemy. They were trained to know about strategy and enough about politics to not make a mess of things, which was hard work in the wizarding world. Magical people were very fickle, they would change their opinion on you based on the socks you were wearing if they felt like it.

Hermione had always been the one who dealt with spells and all that, and Death, still called Harry at that point, had been pretty much lost without her when she'd died trying to get a group of muggle-born children to safety. Even strategy wasn't strictly their area, but after Ron had been kidnapped and tortured until his mind, and body, had shattered, they'd had no other choice in the matter.

(Harry Potter had many friends, but nobody could replace his very first friends. They would always be his best friends, no matter what.)

They let out a startled sound which quickly turned into slightly hysterical laughter when the magic started shimmering right in front of them. Exhaustion was beginning to make itself known, but Death wasn't giving up now when there was finally some progress after such a long time. They pushed even more magic into the spell, even though the only reason they were standing up right now was sheer willpower.

The shimmering place grew smaller and denser, until finally it was just big enough for Death to fit through. Death took a step forward, their shaking fingers reaching out to touch it. This was it. A way to escape from this hell. A moment before Death could make contact; they stopped, suddenly starting to doubt themselves. Had they done it right? What if it didn't work as it was supposed to?

No. If it didn't work, it didn't work. If it didn't do what it was supposed to do, then that was fine too. Anything would be better than this. They pulled their hand back and clenched it into a fist. There were only a few second left before the magic started to dissipate. It took centuriesto collect enough magic to perform this spell.

They let their body fall into the hole created by the magic, and disappeared.

(*¤.¤*)

Death opened their eyes slowly, feeling disoriented.

There was something very wrong with that thought. They couldn't have been sleeping; they hadn't needed to sleep since they'd died. They couldn't have been knocked out either for the same reason. They tried to remember what they'd been doing last, but everything was disturbingly fuzzy. A feeling akin to panic was beginning to claw through Death's chest.

Something was making a horrible racket, making it even harder to think. It sounded like a baby was crying, its shrieks piercing the air continuously, as if it didn't need to breathe at all. Had they been near a baby? No, they haven't been around humans for millenia now, not since they started making the spell. It was too dangerous to be anywhere near living beings, since the spell sucked up all the energy around it.

Their eyes widened almost comically as the last thought registered. The spell! Had it worked? They pulled their body up into a sitting position, idly petting the fluffy carpet beneath them and thinking that it was actually a very comfortable place to land. They looked around, trying to spot anything that would indicate the spell's success.

The room they were in was awfully familiar, but Death couldn't seem to catch the memory just then; having copious amounts of knowledge wasn't always very helpful, especially if you simply had too much of it to sort through for one tiny thing. The place they were in looked like a nursery, which explained the crying baby, but not why Death was there. They stood up to get a better look at the baby to see if they could recognize it, and recoiled back when familiar green eyes looked back at them.

The baby – Harry bloody Potter – was standing up in his crib, his eyes focused just a few inches to the right of Death, bawling his eyes out. His forehead was unmarked besides the wrinkles that were forming as a result of the sobbing, and he looked to be about a year old. Death had seen him like this before, on one of their many trips to their past, so they calmed down quickly, the panic from before starting to ebb, and started cataloguing the rest of the room to find any differences. Anything to show that the spell had worked.

Raised, panicky voices were coming from downstairs, but Death was much too curious about their own situation to pay attention to background noises. The room seemed to be an exact replica of the one back in their own universe, assuming the spell had worked as it should have and had sent them to another one. The same toys looked back at them from various places strewn across the floor, and even that one scorch mark that had been badly repainted with muggle methods, because Lily would always be aggressively proud of her roots, was still there beside the lamp that James had charmed to change colour depending on Harry's mood, but was now unfortunately broken.

They were beginning to doubt that the spell had worked, and disappointment was starting to creep in when the door banged open and Lily Potter rushed in, her fiery red hair whipping behind her. Death stared at her with the same expression they got every time they saw her; awestruck love and longing. She shut the door distractedly, not aware of the silent third party in the room, and came to Harry's side, leaning down to brush a desperate kiss to his forehead.

"It's okay, Harry love, you'll be okay," Lily assured, the promise rushing out from between her lips with determination etched into every word. "I'll make sure you'll be okay."

Harry had calmed down as soon as his mother had come into his room, and he gave a little gurgle of laughter when she kissed him.

Death's eyes widened as he looked between the mother and son pair. So it was today. The day Harry Potter became simultaneously the most loved and the most hated figure of his time, and also lost any right he had to privacy. They stood there uncertainly for a moment before deciding to stay and watch. Something seemed to be a bit different here, but Death couldn't quite put their finger on it.

They looked at Lily more closely, since she was the only new thing right now. They'd spent an almost embarrassing amount of time just looking at Lily and memorizing every detail about her, so they were pretty sure they'd notice if there was something wrong. Green eyes, check; bright red hair, check; almost the exact replica of Death's facial structure when they'd still been alive, check; determined expression and trying to protect her only child, check; arm raised to proper duelling position to cast spells with her wand, check... wait.

A wand? Lily wasn't supposed to have a wand!

Death moved closer and gave an accusing look at the offending piece of magical wood. Why was Lily carrying a wand? She was supposed to have lost it just a few hours before Voldemort's arrival. She would have had a mini panic attack and yelled at James for at least half an hour before laughing it off because it wasn't like Voldemort was going to show up just because she lost her wand, right? And then she would go to play with Harry. It was why she'd never stood a chance against Voldemort, why she hadn't been able to protect Harry with more than words.

So this was definitely a different universe. Death almost felt like they could sit down for a moment, to let the shock pass. There weren't any chairs around though, so they just sat down on the same place they had woken up in. The position also gave them a much better view of the what was happening, except for Harry, who was hidden behind the railing of his crib, but he wasn't very important right now anyway.

Voldemort opened the door quietly before Death could get too deep into contemplating what this all meant for them. Death took a moment to really look at the Dark Lord, and decided that it was a bit sad to see him like this, since Death had seen what he actually looked like before all the Horcruxes and other rituals did their damage. It was fitting too, in a way. It showed the way his soul had rotted.

Death could feel the soul pieces tugging to get back to the original, though the original certainly wasn't the biggest piece left. The dubious honour of that was given to the horcrux stuck in the diary. They'd never really felt Voldemort's horcruxes before, and they were starting to wish that they couldn't feel them now, either. They felt disgusting; Every awful thing in the world pressed together, every negative emotion and every ugly thought. Actually, it was staring to make Death a little nauseous. It was good that nobody could see them right now; the expression on their face really didn't fit with most people's images of Death.

"Lily," Voldemort sighed, sounding far too familiar, as if they were acquaintances as opposed to the mortal enemies they really were. "Lily, Lily, you really don't live up to the image of your name. You're far too Gryffindor for your own good." He gave her an indulging look. "Step out of the way, and I won't hurt you."

Death glanced between the two adults, trying to figure out what was going on. They were almost a million years old by their reckoning; they should be able to understand this, to figure out why the two adults were acting like they knew each other more than they should.

"I won't let you hurt Harry," Lily answered darkly, her wand pointing straight at Voldemort's heart, not wavering an inch. "I don't care what the prophesy says, and I think you're unimaginably stupid to put worth in it when everybody knows it'll only fulfil itself if you believe in it," she spat out venomously. Death was pretty sure she was only saying all that because she knew that one of them wouldn't be leaving this room alive, but that didn't take away any of the awesomeness.

Voldemort snarled, his calm façade disappearing instantly. He raised his wand, the tip glowing the colour of Death's eyes, before seeming to think better of it and lowering it to his side again. His expression changed to one of sly cunning.

"I must admit, I couldn't figure out why Severus would beg me to spare you after giving your child up so easily, but I'm starting to see it now," he hissed, lips twitching in cruel amusement. "Yes, it's quite obvious from this angle."

Lily didn't seem surprised by the change in subject, or about Snape's involvement in the situation, but then again she had always had an amazing ability to know people better than they even knew themselves. There was a small group of people – the leader, of course, being James Potter – that had decided that she'd mastered Legilimency at a very young age, and could see into the minds of even the most skilled Occlumens.

Unfortunately, there was no way for Voldemort to know of this, and so he became even more frustrated when his apparent plan to mentally unbalance the witch failed.

"Severus's loyalties have always been fragile at best," Lily noted with a smile that terrified even Death. They had no doubt that if she lived past this day, Severus would find his life to be very difficult from then on.

This seemed to be the final straw for Voldemort, and he drew his wand with a hiss. "Step aside, girl," he threatened. Death levered themselves up from their previous sitting position when it became clear that the talking portion of the evening was over. They cast a quick glance at Harry, who also seemed to be very interested by the happenings, before going closer to the two opponents.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Death focused on the Stone so they would be able to sense the deaths in the room, resigned to watch history repeat itself again, but they were brought up short when Lily thrust out her wand with a sharp motion and quickly chanted a spell Death had never heard before. The language was similar to Latin though, so they were able to understand the basic meaning of it.

As soon as they figured out what the intention of the spell was, they rushed to get between the witch and wizard to stop the magic from connecting with the Dark Lord, even though they knew that it was already too late. It passed right through them, absorbed the killing curse, and struck Voldemort dead in the chest.

Lily crumpled to the ground; lifeless. Voldemort barely stumbled.

"What was that?" Voldemort asked the corpse, staring at his fingers with curiosity. He brought them to his chest and ran them over the cloth covered flesh, his expression unreadable. "Well, no matter." He raised his head to give Harry look of triumph.

Death was still staring at Lily's body, reeling in shock. Why had she done that? What was the purpose of it?

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort repeated gleefully, but the spell didn't work this time either. Instead, it bounced back, leaving a scar in the shape of lightning on Harry's forehead.

The snake-like body of the Dark Lord turned to dust, no longer able to keep going without its soul and magic there to keep it intact. A tiny, mangled cloud of the original soul rose up, appearing to hesitate for a moment between going to Death's side or leaving, before deciding on the latter when Death spared no attention on it.

Death still didn't look up, feeling like their world had just been twisted into an unfamiliar, grotesque shape. It was a different universe, and for a second there they'd actually thought that things would be different too, yet still Lily had died to protect her son; Harry still had a piece of Voldemort's soul in him; and worst of all, they still couldn't do anything to change it all. Hope; what a dangerous feeling.

What was the point of coming here at all if it was just going to be a repeat of their previous world?!

This was supposed to be their chance to get away, to find something that they wouldn't get bored of. Something that they could spend the rest of their unnatural death doing so they wouldn't get lost in the dead.

A noise of discomfort and unhappiness broke through.

Death's head snapped up to take in the only other being in the room, feeling frozen to the bone. Harry was looking between his mother and Death, confusion very apparent on his expressive face. Death's expression soon became a mirror of the same, their eyes huge and disbelieving.

"Can you..." They tried to say, the words followed by a coughing fit as they used the voice box that had been ignored for a century at least, only used for maniacal laughter or frustrated screams.

Harry looked startled at the sound, and blinked up at Death with a peculiar expression. Death was pretty sure they were both dumb-founded right now. They stared at each-other, neither of them knowing what was going on.

Death gathered their courage and went to stand by the crib. Harry tilted his head so they didn't break eye-contact. There was a weird feeling gathering in the pit of Death's stomach, spreading right through to their chest; the skin on their face was feeling too tight and their eyes were burning. They hadn't felt like this since before they were still alive.

What had Lily done? She had to have created the spell herself; Death had never come across it or the language before. The words she had used were similar to the Latin words that meant giving ones life for another, and binding them together. Had it somehow affected Death as well?

Who were part of the spell then? Lily, of course, because she had cast the spell, and Voldemort, who was hit by it. But what about Harry and Death? It could be a spell meant to protect Harry? And it could have somehow, impossibly, affected Death as well when it passed through them.

But that was all speculation, no solid theory could be reached without Lily, and she was dead.

Death resisted the urge to look at her corpse again, knowing that nothing important about her was left there. Her soul had left, mysteriously travelling to the other side without the power of the Ring to guide her.

Harry made a sound, reaching for Death with his chubby hands. Death took a breath, bracing themselves for inevitable failure and disappointment before daring to give the small child their hand, which was immediately grabbed and brought closer to Harry's face for inspection.

It was a feeling they had forgotten, to be touched by something living. Harry's skin was soft and warm; fragile, not at all like the surface of the magical apparitions Death liked to summon when they were feeling particularly touch-starved. He wasn't being exactly careful, squeezing just a bit too tight with a child's ignorance, but Death hadn't felt anything so wonderful in such a long time that they didn't even think to mind.

This time Death was the one to break the silence. At first it was only heavy breathing, emphasized by small keening sounds at random intervals. Soon it developed into quiet laughter that could have also been sobbing.

They bowed their head and thanked magic for being merciful.


	2. Chapter 2

The Return

Discovering a child on her doorstep when she had only stepped out to take out the rubbish was a shocking experience. The disgust and anger Petunia felt at somebody leaving a child, no older than her own Dudley, outside in the cold, with only a flimsy blanket and a note, was so overwhelming that she felt her whole being tremble with the injustice of it.

Deciding that this was more important than her previous endeavour, she left the trash beside the door and quickly took the child inside with her, for the moment not taking note of the envelope and gingerly placing the basket the child had been put in on the kitchen table, first checking to see that the child had suffered no visible damage. At this stage, she decided that he child was definitely a boy. She picking him up and held him to her chest, surprised at the warmth. At least that meant he hadn't been outside for too long.

She made a quiet shushing sound when it seemed like the child would be waking up.

"Shh, no need to worry now," she mumbled soothingly, rocking a little like she did with Dudley to get him to calm down. To her pleasant surprise, the child woke up peacefully, blinking up her with startlingly green eyes. She glanced away for a second, momentarily lost in a memory of similar eyes staring up at her.

"Are you hungry?" She didn't wait for the baby to answer, going over to the fridge and taking out the yoghurt that she had been planning on giving Dudley today. The child was looking around the room with curiosity, until his gazed stayed fixed on one spot in particular. He didn't seem to be concerned by the fact that he was in a strange place with a person he'd never seen before.

"Here you go," she said, placing the spoon in his hand and holding out the yoghurt. He looked at her then, making a question sound. She nodded encouragingly. He looked away from her again, then started eating slowly. Such a well taught child! She took a napkin off the shelf to make sure he didn't make too much of a mess, but only needed to use it a few times.

Now that she was certain the child was in good health, she picket up the envelope with one hand, the other still holding on to the sleeping bundle pressed snugly against her chest. She examined it with a critical eye, displeased to see that the letter was written in a calm hand, and even on considerably expensive paper, judging by the thickness of it! Opening the letter proved to be a bit of a challenge, but she managed well enough in the end.

Having read through the message, she placed the child back in the basket she had discovered him in, and then sat down in a nearby chair. Having made sure that both herself and the child were now safe, she allowed her calm exterior to break.

_Lily..._

(*-,-*)

Petunia Dursley had thought that she could raise the child to become a normal boy. Everything could continue on as it had, and she would have the perfect life she'd been waiting for. Her little Dudley and the boy could even become brothers. (She knew that she wouldn't be having any children of her own again.) She stopped thinking of Harry as Lily's child; it had become far too painful, both because she'd started to view Harry as her own, and because thinking of her sister - the one she had always envied, but also loved - was gone forever before they could start fixing things.

This was her chance to rid her family of everything that had gone wrong before.

It didn't matter that Harry started speaking much sooner than the baby book had promised, started doing _everything _before he was supposed to be able to. Petunia was delighted, and after a bit of convincing, her husband also saw the positive sides rather than the negative. It didn't matter that her own son was a month younger and wasn't showing such progress; some babies just took longer to develop and they'd grow up to be just as successful. (_It didn't matter as long as he didn't do any magic. He was going to be normal, like them._)

(*¤.¤*)

At night, Death told Harry bedtime stories – both muggle ones and wizarding ones – from every culture, every time-period, every genre. They made the stories come alive like they were plays in a theatre or on television – with animals and people made out of magic. Their voice grew strong again after years of disuse, but it was forever changed into something deeper, rustier, to show how much they themselves had changed.

When Harry first did accidental magic, Death was the one who saw it and congratulated him, the one who praised him. (A lucky coincidence that none other than Death was there to witness it.) It was just a small thing, making his clothes water-resistant when the rain kept getting through his flimsy clothes, but Harry appeared to be in an exceptionally good mood for weeks afterwards.

After that, Death was the one who started to teach him spells and curses - ones that only required small amounts of magic and were easy to master (and to conceal). Children had much less limitations, with their imagination still unsullied by adult theories, and so they also learned magic much more quickly.

Harry learned early on to never speak to or of Death nor magic when there were others around, Death made sure of that. They absolutely did not want to find out what the Dursleys would do if they thought Harry wasn't the normal boy they so foolish hoped he was.

Death didn't bother to worry about what would happen to the future now that they'd changed so many things already. They were determined to make this child's life better. Besides, they couldn't really be sure when they were changing things and when things stayed the same; they barely remembered their own childhood, or ever their life as -

Anyway, they did what they thought was best for the child, not what would benefit the future. (though obviously there were a few side-affects to this that were bad, they were far outweighed by the good ones in Death's opinion.)

This was a different universe, and they could influence it through Harry, so it didn't have to end the way Death's own world had ended. Of course, not everything could be changed. There were many who Harry wouldn't come into contact with, many things he simply couldn't accomplish. Death knew they had to focus on the bigger picture, if they wanted to change anything at all. And changing one things for the better could mean changing another for the worse, and they had no idea which events were a result of which.

They had decided early on to just try and prepare Harry as best as they could. Harry was the only person they could communicate with, and that was something precious. They couldn't imagine how they'd manage to survive after having that and losing it again.

As they were now able to communicate with Harry, travelling through time was out of the question. Everything would happen only once, and Death had decided to let events happen as they would.

Around the time Harry turned six, when Death had been with him for some five years, it became clear that Harry thought of Death as a sort of father figure. In retrospect, that shouldn't have come as a surprise, but Death still found it oddly ironic.

(*-,-*)

"To the left," Death instructed in a whisper, though nobody but the one they were talking to could hear them anyway.

Harry grinned sheepishly in reply, adjusting his wand moment accordingly. This time the spell succeeded, and the pumpkin juice in his goblet turned into a bright green colour. The first years students around him, the ones who were leaning out of their seats to get a better look, made astonished noises and clapped Harry on the back congratulatoryly.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Seamus asked, practically jumping out of his seat in excitement. Harry had shared a compartment with him, Dean Thomas, and Ron Weasley. They'd already mostly gotten used to Harry being famous, and Death was pleased. Harry gave a secretive smile.

"It was in the charms textbook," he answered, and it was somewhat true too; the spell really was in there. Harry had just learned it from a different source.

Death smiled indulgently, their fingers resting on Harry's shoulder as was habit. They weren't all that surprised that Harry had been sorted into Gryffindor again, even after all the little things they had changed.

In the beginning, the most difficult thing had been to not just take Harry far away from the Dursleys. They had realized, after Snape had come running into the room, that only Harry was able to see and touch them; all others were blind to their presence as always. This made it abundantly clear that Lily's spell was the one responsible.

After that realization they'd sulked for a little while. For like a year. Or maybe two, but who was counting. It wasn't easy to accept that they finally had the chance to change something, but weren't able to do so because they were able to communicate with only one person.

Still, they thought Harry's life had been a lot better than before; he knew about magic from a younger age, he knew the truth about his parents and Voldemort, and he managed to act in a way that the Durselys found acceptable. Overall, Death considered it a success. It was a bit difficult to explain that Death only existed for Harry, like an imaginary friend, but eventually things worked out.

It had been especially awkward when McGonagall had arrived shortly after Harry's eleventh birthday and told the Dursleys that she would be perfectly capable of accompanying Harry to Diagon Alley by herself to purchase all he needed for Hogwarts. Never mind that the Dursleys had never told Harry about magic, they had never even seen the letter that arrived to accept him to their school. Luckily, they were too shocked by the fact that Harry wasn't 'normal' .

("But he never did any of the freakish stuff my sister did!"

"Freakish?!"

"I told you he was just like his good-for-nothing parents!" )

McGonagall was a no-nonsense sort of woman, so that was quickly taken care of, and they hadn't been swarmed when people had recognized Harry in the streets either. The rest of the trip had been equally peaceful, and Death had managed to get Harry to act acceptably awed by the whole thing, which had been helped by the fact that Harry really had been awed. Hearing about it from your supposed imaginary friend was very different to actually experiencing it.

Being introduced into the magical world by McGonagall like all the muggle-borns was better for little Harry, Death was sure of it.

"But we can't practice magic outside of Hogwarts," Hermione admonished, looking disproving.

Harry gave her a confused look in return. "What does that have to do with anything?" he asked.

Hermione puffed out a breath in irritation. "Well, we only got here today, and we've been together the whole time. There's no way you could have learned to do it, therefore you must have have practised magic at home!" She said, proving her point with a triumphant expression.

Harry shrugged. "That's because I only did it for the first time today, right here." He flushed. "This is the first time I've ever done magic with a wand," he admitted shyly, thought still glowing with pride at his accomplishment.

Hermione gaped at him. "But-" she cut herself off and stared at her plate for a moment, then looked up determinedly, her eyes pleading. "Can you teach it to me too?"

Harry nodded excitedly, because being with people his age was still a novelty and he was desperate for friends. He quickly switched seats with another kid so they could sit next to each other.

Death followed without question, moving around so they wouldn't be in Harry's way. They had already known that Harry wouldn't get to spend as much time with them as before, wouldn't get to speak with them when others were present. After all, human life spans were very short, minuscule in fact, when compared to Death.

They turned their attention to the rest of the hall, looking over all the familiar faces as Harry and Hermione started chattering away. Death had watched each one of them live their life at least once. All of them had their stories, most of them with an unhappy ending.

For example the boy over there, sitting next to Susan – who was already in her seventh year and would move to America after it became clear that Voldemort really was back, and would die alone in an ally after a muggle found her performing magic – was Thomas, who was a muggle-born, but hid it expertly, and would commit suicide at the age of twenty-five, because he couldn't handle being a Death Eater any longer, not after that little boy had begged him not to kill her mother, had begged him with a small wavering voice to not hurt her, but he had done it anyway because displeasing the Dark Lord would be indefinitely worse than making one small child sad.

It had been weird at first to come back to this time and follow Harry around. Death had gotten used to seeing the child only from afar when he somehow came into contact with the one Death had been following at the time. (Death had never followed Harry Potter for the duration of his whole life in the other universe, only short moments. They knew better than that.)

The professors were all immersed in conversation, but a few of them were looking out at the students from time to time. Severus Snape, for example, couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Death's charge, even though the person next to him was clearly irritated that he wasn't fully concentrated on their discussion. The turban of professor Quirrell, which Death knew to be hiding the back of the professor's head which was housing the soul of Voldemort, was also turned towards the Gryffindor table.

Death knew that Quirrell had once again been possessed not only because they speculated so from their knowledge from their own universe, but also because of the tainted magic and foul aura that was emanating from the jittery man. Also the separated soul pieces desperately trying to reunite with the original. The horcrux stuck in Harry, which Death was reluctant to remove in case something went wrong, was the most prominent at the moment, being the one closest.

(*¤.¤*)

Harry looked around the dormitory to avoid looking at the four other boys. Though they had all seemed nice enough at dinner, he was still a bit apprehensive. Death was the only person, if one could call him that, Harry had ever been on close terms with. He was mistrustful of his true family, and they had never made an effort to really get to know him in return. Making friends had been hard with Dudley around every corner to spread rumour after nasty rumour about him. (The fact that his mother had told him to not bother Harry had done nothing to quench his thirst for hurting other people.)

Harry honestly didn't know how he would have survived without Death there with him. School had been barely tolerable, even without the Dursley's making it clear that him making better grades than their precious Dudley was unacceptable. He would have probably stopped studying altogether if Death hadn't started teaching him all the important stuff in a way that wasn't boring at all. Death had a way of making things interesting.

Their new dorm-room was made up in Gryffindor colours, just like the common-room, and it held four-poster beds for all of them. A window was situated on either side of each bed, which meant that they weren't particularly close together, and they allowed a space for personal belongings. Harry wasn't used to so much space after spending all of his earlier days in a small room stuffed full of Dudley's old toys. Not that it hadn't been fun; he'd got to learn a lot of transformation spells by practising on those abandoned trinkets, and Death had even taught him how to make his bed really comfortable.

He already knew he wouldn't miss anything from that house though; the only thing/person he really cared about was Death. His Aunt wasn't too bad either, but not really what he would consider family after all the things Death had told him about Lily and James.

Finally, having mapped out the entire room, he looked at Death for lack of anything better to do, trying to catch the man's eye. He'd seemed to be distracted ever since Harry had mentioned the pain he'd felt when looking at the teachers table. Even now his luminous eyes seemed to be looking at things that nobody else could possibly be able to see. Harry wasn't worried though; this wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Sometimes Death did that when he was deep in thought. Like on the day Harry had gotten his Hogwarts letter, Death had just followed Harry around with an empty expression for the whole day.

"I think I'm going to sleep now," Neville, the boy who had lost his toad earlier on the train, said timidly. The others nodded their agreement eagerly and started getting ready for bed. Harry followed their lead, though he wasn't all that tired yet.

Their things had been put next to their beds, and they were all too tired to start changing places right now so they just agreed silently to stay in their assigned beds. The fact that all the beds and drawers were identical probably had something to do with the fact that nobody was making a fuss as well.

Death was still in the same spot and position he had been before when Harry came back from his nightly routine, dressed in bed clothes, and Harry carefully nudged him towards his bed when it became clear that he had no intention of moving by himself. Harry knew that Death would stay by his side while he slept; he'd done it all through Harry's life, every night.

The other boys were already settling in their beds, so they didn't see Harry gently pushing and pulling at what looked to be thin air, which was probably for the best. Finally, when Harry was happy with Death's new position, he crawled into bed himself, though he left the bed-curtains open just in case.

A bony hand ran through his hair and cold lips pressed against his forehead.

"Good night, Harry," Death said, and Harry could hear the warmth and fondness in Death's low, rusty rumble of a voice even though most people would have missed it entirely.

"Good night," he mumbled back, already feeling sleep taking over him even though he'd been wide awake just a minute ago. The long day was finally catching up with him.


	3. Chapter 3

The Return

Nobody had warned Draco that being a Slytherin meant he would never get to spend a moment alone. Sure, his Father had always said that Slytherins stuck together, and his Mother had warned him not to move around Hogwarts by himself, but he hadn't expected _this_. Being surrounded at all hours, not even getting to go to the bathroom by himself. Draco was an only child. He was used to plenty of space and occasionally feeling a bit lonely, but he'd never had to share every waking moment with others.

His fellow first year Slytherins, most noticeably Crabb and Goyle, seemed to be under the impression that being alone was _bad _and crowding together was _cool_. At first he'd sort of enjoyed it, even found it comforting; something familiar in a new place. (He'd never admit that out loud though.) But now, _now_ he just wanted to _be alone._ Even for one minute. Which was why he was so eager to leave the Great Hall and his gang of co-dependant Slytherins behind.

He waited for the most opportune moment - when everyone else was focused on a prank played by the Weasley twins – and carefully slipped out of his seat, grateful the Slytherin table was the closest to the entrance. He gave the Hall a final glance when he was at the doors to make sure nobody had noticed him sneaking off. The urge to give a sigh of relief was great, but he stopped himself just in time, because Malfoys always had to be proper, no matter if anyone was watching or not. He went through the door that was left to the grand staircase and started making his way toward the Potions classroom.

It seemed like everybody else was still eating or hadn't yet woken up, but whatever the case may be, Draco didn't encounter anyone else on his way. The portraits watched him silently, still yawning or rubbing their eyes from sleep. Draco wondered if it would be like this every Friday, or if the student-body was still just getting used to the new school year.

Descending into the dungeons was unpleasant. Mostly because the lower you were, the lower the temperature was. Draco was glad that there was an enchantment on the dungeon that would warm them up during winter, because the Slytherin dorms were under the Lake, and waking up to frozen toes was not his idea of a good time. At least time low temperature meant they were all fully awake by the time they left the dungeons.

As he neared the classroom he felt his hopes of a few moments of solitude shatter. Potter was lingering in front of the classroom door, his gaze fixed upward as if he was listening to something very carefully. His appearance wasn't as ruffled as most of the residents of Hogwarts were during the morning, except for his hair, which always looked like a birds nest, but that was to be expected. His messy hair had become almost as iconic as his scar during the few short days he'd spent at Hogwarts.

Draco considered turning back and going to find another quiet place, but since the lesson would be starting soon he decided to approach the mysterious wizard. It couldn't be that bad, and secretly Draco had been waiting for a moment to talk to the Boy Who Lived ever since he'd found out they would be at Hogwarts together. (Again, not that he'd ever tell that to anyone.)

"Good morning, Potter," he greeted coolly, hoping to make Potter understand that he wasn't like those air-headed idiots who followed him around as if he was the reincarnation of Merlin himself. "You're here early."

"I didn't know where the classroom was, so I made sure to come early in case I got lost," the brunette answered smartly, looking a bit surprised but also pleased. Probably because someone was just making small-talk and not immediately asking for his autograph, Draco thought with a snort. This was the first time he'd caught Potter alone – even when Potter looked like he was alone, there were always people whispering about him in his vicinity.

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Only, I've heard the other first-years talking about you giving them directions."

Potter, it turned out, was an excellent liar; Draco would have believed his excuse too, if Pansy hadn't told him about that little rumour just yesterday night, right when Draco had been trying to write a letter to his Father. Draco had snapped at her to be quiet, but he was grateful for the opportunity to prove Potter wrong now.

"Oh," Potter looked taken-aback, but not embarrassed as Draco had expected him to be. Mysterious indeed. "Well, I've figured out which ones are the real doors and how to open them, but you never know how the staircases move. I wanted to be prepared." And since Potter was apparently such an excellent liar, Draco couldn't even tell if he was actually telling the truth this time. How _annoying. _

His expression must have been showing what he was thinking, because Potter's sheepish smile turned a bit strained. No wonder it had taken so long for the Sorting Hat to decide where to put him, Draco mused, he'd most likely have made a good Slytherin. Well, he would have if he had better connections – right now he was just a powerful island floating all by itself. Being ambitious was the main key to being Slytherin, but Potter's inclination to stay away from people made it evident that he quite clearly _wasn't_ very ambitious.

"Of course," Draco drawled, not voicing his thoughts out loud. "I'm sure it had nothing to do with avoiding your adoring fans, either."

"Oh? You're one to talk." Potter smirked readily, looking around pointedly to indicate the lack of Slytherins around Draco. "Avoiding your followers?" He mocked, but his eyes were amused.

Draco blinked at that. He hadn't known that Potter had noticed him, nor had he expected this side of Potter. At first he'd assumed Potter would act like the Gryffindor hero everyone thought he would be, but after observing that he didn't surround himself with a group of worshippers willingly, he'd written Potter off as anti-social or shy. Now he was starting to suspect that Potter was just holding back because all anybody ever wanted to talk to him about was the fact that he was famous.

Crushing the urge to vehemently deny any weakness, Draco nodded in agreement. He was reasonably certain Potter would understand and not tell anybody.

"It appears we're in the same position then," he wagered, raising an eyebrow.

Potter smiled at him, and it looked to be genuine this time. "Appears so," he echoed.

Further conversation was cut off when a pack of Gryffindor first-years made their appearance. They stayed away from Potter, and at first Draco thought it was because he was with a Slytherin, and a sneer was already forming on his lips, when he noticed that the distrustful gazes weren't directed at him, but at the Boy-Who-Lived. He glanced at Potter, and the boy wonder didn't even seem all that surprised at the unfavourable reaction.

"Should have known you'd be with the snakes," a red-head muttered. A Weasley, judging by the look of him. Draco cast a glance at Potter, who was holding his chin up stubbornly. What? Was this why Potter hadn't been buddying up with the other Gryffindors?

"Better snakes than blood-traitors." Potter retorted.

_What_?

"I'd rather be a blood-traitor than a Death Eater any day!" The Weasley spat, face turning an unflattering shade of red.

"Yeah, how could you side with the ones who killed your parents!"

The four Gryffindors were standing together, united, but Draco wasn't interested in them. Instead, he focused on Potter, who looked righteously furious, but was staying quiet. (Did Potter not know that his own father had been a blood-traitor? Did he not know that his mother had been a mudblood? Hadn't there been a rumour that Potter had been raised by his muggle relatives?)

Potter was gripping his wand hard enough that his knuckles were turning white, but something appeared to be holding him back, because he didn't make a move to raise his hand. Draco considered saying something, but once again they were interrupted by the arrival of Gryffindors.

"Stop it already!" A bushy-haired girl yelled after she noticed the situation at hand, coming to stand between them. "He's not worth it." And to Draco's surprise, she looked to be talking about Potter. The Boy Who Lived, not worth it?

"Hermione," Potter started, but whatever else he was going to say was cut off by the witch scowling at him.

"Leave it," the girl snapped, striding over to the classroom door and yanking it open. She didn't spare them another glance as she left their sight. Thankfully, it seemed to be enough to break the other Gryffindors out of their stupor, and they moved to follow her while throwing nasty looks at Potter.

Draco felt off-kilter, not being the target of the Gryffindors' rage as he usually was. He looked at Potter, who was still scowling. He debated whether or not he should ask about what had just happened, but didn't get a chance to as Potter's expression cleared.

"Sorry about that," he said apologetically. "I'll understand if you don't want to, but do you want to sit together?"

Draco nodded, purely because Potter was turning out to be far more interesting than he'd originally thought. And that was a huge achievement.

* * *

><p>Harry sighed as he made his way up to the Gryffindor common room, wondering when Ron's brothers were going to prank him. Because they would be doing something bad to him, of that he had no doubt. The nasty looks Ron had been giving him plus the fact that his older brothers were notorious pranksters was an easy equation to solve.<p>

He'd gone to the library after lunch and stayed until closing, mostly to read books he hadn't had access to at Privet Drive, but also because he was pretty sure his dorm-mates had made sure that everyone in Gryffindor knew about what had happened the night before, which meant he probably wasn't welcome there anymore. He'd skipped dinner for the same reasons.

"Don't take that staircase," Death advised, putting more pressure on Harry's shoulder to stop him. Harry followed his advice obediently, waiting until the staircase moved away and another took its place.

"I'm sorry," he whispered after looking around to make sure nobody else was around to hear. Death stayed silent, though he must have known what Harry was talking about. He always did.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Harry continued, thinking back to the previous night. He'd been in his dorm, hanging out with his room-mates, when the conversation had turned to Halloween. Death had warned him not to talk about his opinions on muggles with Gryffindor's or anyone he didn't trust, but he just hadn't been able to control himself.

Dean had asked them what would happen at Hogwarts during Halloween, to which Ron had started explaining everything his older brothers had told him about it. And Harry, because he was _stupid_, had mentioned that he was angry about the Ministry putting restrictions on the celebration, although he understood that they were to keep the muggles unaware of magic. Harry's dorm-mates hadn't reacted too well to that, nor to Harry's explanation that he just wanted to keep wizarding traditions alive.

"There's nothing to be done about it," Death answered, reassuring and kind. He never got mad at Harry, the relationship they shared was what Harry had always thought what having a parent would be like, until he'd started school and overheard the other kids talking about their parents. The point was, Death had infinite patience.

"I'm still sorry."

Death squeezed Harry's shoulder, accepting the apology. "I'm sorry as well, for asking you to keep your opinions hidden. I knew that they would be found out eventually, and foresaw that it might have negative consequences in the long-run. I only wanted you to form relationships with magical beings that are your own age."

Harry didn't scoff only because he'd heard that many times before. Death loved him, this Harry was certain of, but he also had these weird ideas that it wouldn't be good for Harry to be so attached to him, even though Harry was also certain that Death didn't really want to share his attention. A weird contradiction, but that was just Death.

"I want you to be happy." Death had a way of saying this, as if he thought Harry couldn't be happy with just Death for company, and Harry very strongly disagreed. He'd lived his whole life with only Death by his side, and so far he hadn't wanted for anyone else. He'd always felt a bit spoiled about it, but it seemed unfair to him, getting to have the best there was and then being made to accept people who clearly weren't as great as Death was into his life.

"Draco Malfoy," Death said musingly, "What are you going to do, Harry?"

Harry started walking again to avoid looking suspicious. He considered the question, thought about the way they'd met before the Potion's lesson and the way Draco had been willing to help him with his work. Sure, he'd acted smug and kind of like a prat, but he was also the first person in Hogwarts who hadn't treated Harry like his fame was all there was to him.

"His father," Harry said, but then didn't continue the thought. He began again. "At least Draco won't be opposed to the way I think of muggles." He sighed. "I guess it all comes down it whether or not it'll be worth it to try and change his mind about magical creatures and muggle-borns."

Harry loved magic, he loved the way Death talked about it and the way it made him feel and the traditions that were devastatingly enough starting to die because of blood-traitors like the Weasleys. Harry couldn't help but feel resentful of the muggles. There they were, living their lives, unaware that they were killing an entire culture by proxy. Magical beings had to do everything consciously aware that they couldn't let the muggles discover them, and the blood-traitors and muggle-borns were making things so much worse by trying to fit muggle culture into their own, all the while forgetting the wizarding traditions.

And the Death Eaters, with the madman Voldemort leading them, who had thought they were making things better for them, were all the while actually making it harder for magical beings to hide themselves from the muggles. They had the right idea, but they were executing it in the worst way possible. They had to get away from the muggles, not kill them and risk getting discovered and destroyed in the process. They had to accept the muggle-borns, not ostracise them. They had to accept all magic and live together peacefully, separate from the muggles – that was what Death had been telling him for as long as he could remember.

Death leaned down to embrace Harry from behind, likely knowing the turmoil of his thoughts. Harry didn't stop walking to enjoy the moment only because he saw a group of Hufflepuffs approaching. He honestly didn't know how the other students survived without someone like Death by their side.

"Harry!"

Harry stiffened at the call, though he didn't turn around. Death pressed his cheek against Harry's shoulder and sighed before straightening to his full height.

"Neville," Harry answered coolly, stiffening even more once Death's comforting presence disappeared from his back.

"I'm glad I caught you," the boy huffed once he'd reached Harry's side. "I've been looking for you all day. I wanted to tell you, I- That was really brave of you!" he said, appearing a bit flustered before raising his chin stubbornly and looking Harry straight in the eyes. "I mean, what you did yesterday." He blushed, looking away again.

Harry stared at him for a moment, caught off guard.

"I just- I mean, I agreed with what you were saying, but I wasn't brave enough to say it myself," Neville muttered the last part, looking down.

"Thanks," Harry said dumbly, before shaking off the surprise and grimacing. "I probably shouldn't have said it though, now the whole dorm thinks I'm evil or something." He gave a bitter laugh. "As if wanting to keep your own culture alive is something to be ashamed of."

Neville nodded along, appearing to gain confidence. "That's what my grandmother says. And it's not like I don't like muggle-borns!" He hurried to add. "I don't agree with what the Death Eaters were doing at all, my parents..." he paused, then continued without finishing the thought. "It's just, muggles are scary," he admitted quietly, "but so are Death Eaters, and you have to choose a side."

Harry shook his head. "If you don't agree with either side, don't support them." He glanced around, and in doing so noticed Death standing next to him and looking at Neville with a strange expression. "This probably isn't the best place to talk about it though."

Neville jerked his head around anxiously, not relaxing even when he'd made sure nobody else was around. "Yeah, I mean- sorry. But I wanted to talk to you before you got back into the dorm." He cringed, looking miserable.

"I'm glad you did," Harry responded, reaching out hesitantly to put his hand on Neville's shoulder. Thankfully it appeared to make the other boy relax a bit, which is what Harry had been going for. He had no idea how to comfort someone, the only times he'd come into contact with it had been when Death had been comforting him, and this usually calmed him down when Death did it.

"We should go to the common room, I can't avoid it forever."

Neville laughed a bit shakily and offered a small smile. "We'll be together. I don't know if that'll help, but… I'll be on your side."

Harry nodded, feeling his eyes burn a little. It felt a bit like he'd just made his first real friend. Maybe Death had a point after all.

* * *

><p>Death ran a shaky hand over their face, feeling nauseous.<p>

Harry's conversation with Neville had proved once and for all that this place was different to their own universe. Lily's wand and strange dialogue with Voldemort hadn't been the only divergences. The changes to Harry's life with the Dursley's had been a direct result of Death's interference, but this change in Neville couldn't have been caused by anything Death had done. Which meant that there could be other, more significant changes that Death didn't even know about yet.

Which is why Death had tried to move through time for the first time since he'd got to this dimension. The problem was, Death couldn't move through time anymore.

They'd tried multiple times, in many different ways, but the only thing they'd accomplished was finding out that they could at least still move through space wherever they wanted. The good thing was Death hadn't tried to do that while Harry was awake. Now that they could no longer manipulate time as they pleased, they couldn't leave Harry's side when he was conscious without the boy noticing it.

So they forced themselves to calm down and tried to figure out what else could be different.

First of all, Lily. She'd had her wand, had used a spell that hadn't even existed in Death's own universe, which had made it so that Harry could see and touch Death. Which could be the reason Death could no longer move through time, actually. Now that they were influencing the events that were unfolding through Harry, they might change the past if they knew the future. It seemed like a logical conclusion, though again, there was no way to find out for sure.

The other thing that had been a bit weird had been the way Petunia had reacted to Harry's presence when she'd found him on her doorstep. Death had seen the moment Petunia had discovered Harry before, in their own universe, except this time Petunia had been much more affected by the death of her sister. She'd also made an effort to include Harry in the family, which Death had thought had been because of their own influences, but now it seemed as though it might have been because Petunia was actually different. What had changed?

And Neville, who's life Death had seen from the beginning until the end. Also his parents', his grandparents', and a few of his other relatives. None of them had shown a dislike of muggles. They'd never had blood-purists or blood-traitors in their midst. Except now, it looked as though both Neville _and _his grandmother disliked muggles, enough for Neville to tell Harry that he supported his ideas.

When Death had first started telling Harry about keeping magicals and muggles separate, they'd been worried about how it would affect Harry's attitude toward muggles overall, but then they'd remembered that despite living with the Dursley's for most of his childhood, Harry had managed to come out of the experience without become a muggle hating blood-purist like Voldemort. Now they weren't so sure what Harry would turn out like.

This Harry had learned everything he knew from Death, who had done their best to not dehumanize muggles, but it was hard. Though it had been an uncountable number of years ago for Death personally, they'd still seen everything the muggles would do the magical folk. Eventually, hundreds of years after Death had become Death, the magical community would become stable again, but living through that horror once had made Death wary of muggles. Seeing all of that gruesomeness happen without being able to do anything about it countless times made that wariness turn into a deeper sort of distrust. Death knew what they were capable of. Death also knew that magical people were capable of being just as horrible. The two communities couldn't be allowed to destroy each other. Magical beings needed muggles, they needed the fresh blood that muggle-borns offered. But muggles didn't need magical being, which made it very likely that what had happened in Death's universe would happen here too.

But they had no choice. It didn't matter what Harry thought of the muggles if it lead it the separation between muggles and magicals. Death loved Harry with a fierceness and obsessiveness that came from Harry being the first being they could communicate with and touch in _such a long time, __they'd spent less time being able to touch someone than they had being unable to_, but the fate of all magic also rested on their shoulders, and they didn't know if they could go on with the knowledge that they could have helped, but hadn't.

Suddenly Death felt very grateful that they'd decided not to tell Harry about individual people, nor about future event. That could have turned out disastrous. They'd known that their presence and influence in Harry's life would change things, but now they had no idea what was already different and what was caused by them.


End file.
